


the game

by brattyb



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, F/M, M/M, Purgatory, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-04
Updated: 2016-03-04
Packaged: 2018-05-24 14:49:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6157120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brattyb/pseuds/brattyb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anything is better than this, though, right? When he’s feeling shaky, Wade thinks of reasons to do it. </p><p>Read as: a one-shot in which a heartbroken Wade Wilson commits suicide to be with Lady Death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the game

The gun sits on the table, pointing in Wade’s direction.

Do it, says the yellow box.

You know you want to, says the white box.

Wade does not respond, still watching it like it has a mind of its own, like it’s his enemy, like this is a war. It feels uncomfortable, something close to a lovers’ quarrel, because when did Wade and weaponry not get along before?

Now, through the red mask, he’s glaring at the gun.

C’mon, pick it up, the yellow box taunts.

Just do it already, the white box demands.

It’s not that he’s afraid. How many times had Wade played with a .45 ACP pistol, just to wake up two days later with only a dull pain in his skull and little recollection of what had happened? How many times had he messed around – one against his temple, one inside his mouth, one in the chest? How many times had he woken from the hell he called heaven, just to grab the same gun and do it all over again?

So many times. Too many times. It’s getting old and that’s the problem Wade is having as he stares his enemy down. What’s the point? He’ll just wake back up again.

Maybe not, the white box says hopefully.

But probably, the yellow box says dejectedly.

Anything is better than this, though, right? When he’s feeling shaky, Wade thinks of reasons to do it. He thinks of his scarred skin and how rough it feels. He thinks of how nothing can relieve it, and he’s tried. He’s tried to sit in boiling hot water. He’s tried to rub in lotions. He’s tried ice baths that last so long, even with his healing factor, he steps out pruned and miserable.

The only thing that ever helped was forgetting and that he had done, but only with one Peter Parker.

His heart skips when his mind wanders to the doe eyed boy, then it races when memories flood back. He thinks of Peter’s hands running down his chest. The first time, Wade swore the young superhero was magic. The pain washed away at his touch. Blue eyes stared at him in amazement, but didn’t Wade always look that way around Pete?

Pathetic, the yellow box sighs.

Not this again, the white box groans.

Wade growls angrily now that he’s pulled back to reality.

He’s still not ready. The gun is winning. It stays in its spot and Wade stays in his with a heavy weight in chest.

Still shaky but eager to win the battle, he continues thinking. He thinks of the pain. It’s constant. There’s a ringing in his head from a constant migraine. It feels like he’s walking on shattered bones all the time. And everything aches. If the pain doesn’t feel like a sharp knife, then it feels like the blow of a blunt object, leaving behind a nasty bruise.

He remembers telling Peter this one day. It’s after a night of patrolling. A mugger had shoved and twisted a blade far into Wade’s gut. He’s sure something’s punctured, and it’s taking a shocking amount of effort to pull the weapon out – probably due to the fact that Wade had left it in his body for the duration of the mugger’s arrest. His skin has begun to heal around it, accepting the knife as a new appendage.

Peter is watching behind his mask, and asks, ‘God, doesn’t that hurt?’

Everything hurts. It always hurts. But when pain is a constant, it becomes nearly unnoticeable. It’s like initially getting injured; the adrenaline subsides a bit of the agony, but when your heart stops racing, it comes full force. Wade is in that state of adrenaline constantly. His discomfort is a buzz more than a scream.

When Peter is around, it turns into a murmur. When Peter takes his mask off, it dissipates to a whisper. When Peter has his lips on Wade’s neck, Wade isn’t listening anymore.

What is it now? The white box asks.

“A fucking screech,” Wade replies.

Can’t you hear it? The yellow box asks.

Wade’s fingers twitch on his lap – but nothing more.

He’s beginning to see the pattern. Everything points back to peace with the Parker boy. Despite knowing how every memory ends, though, Wade still plays the game.

He thinks of his personality. How many times had he found himself on the subway, muttering something to absolutely no one at all? A hood mostly covers his face, but still, strangers move down a few seats. And good God, isn’t it terrible to greet a potential friend, only to have them roll their eyes somewhere through his voiced thoughts? Isn’t it hard to talk knowing no one is listening? It is. But it’s harder to stop. He wants to stop sometimes, he really does. But there’s no ‘off’ button. Not for the boxes, not for the pain, not for the running stream of conscious in his head – so he keeps talking. The only time he’s not talking, the only time he shuts up, is when he has the help of his current enemy on the table in the dark room.

Not even Peter can stop him from talking. Mouth on mouth, and Wade is still grumbling sweet nothings. Sometimes, he’s told to be quiet, but most times, Wade’s moaned compliments just make the boy blush, and Wade realizes he doesn’t want to stop talking in moments like these. He talks when Peter sinks white teeth into scarred skin. He talks when Peter’s loud moans and the slapping of skin on skin drown him out. He especially likes to talk when Peter’s on his knees.

His favorite is probably the aftermath. After unraveling upon bed sheets, they lay together and the talking goes on and on. He remembers Peter sometimes cuddling close and just listening, humming and chuckling at all the right times. He also remembers active conversations, naked and arguing about pop culture, hitting every petty point on the head. Nothing Wade brings up is ever ignored.

What a fool, the yellow box says.

Him or the hero? The white box asks.

Both, the yellow box decides.

He’s twitching now. Wade’s fingers are drumming against his knee as he taps his foot. He’s antsy. There’s something inside of him that’s on fire and it’s not the cancer. But he’s anchored to his spot and his eyes still haven’t moved from the barrel. He won’t let it win. He can’t let it win.

He thinks to the last time he saw Peter Parker.

Mask off, on top of a building in the city, his brown eyes are blazing with anger. When Wade takes a step towards him, Peter takes a step back.

 _‘No, stay the hell away from me,’_ he says, voice low, threatening.

_‘Aw, c’mon, baby boy. It was either you or him!’_

Peter steps towards the edge of the building and for a moment, Wade thinks he’s going to jump and swing away. He’s clearly thinking about it. But he’s hesitating for a moment, and then the next moment, he’s in Wade’s face, two fingers jabbing into the mercenary’s broad chest.

 _‘You don’t fucking get it, do you?’_ He’s yelling. _‘There are no exceptions. There are no lives that are more valuable than others. You don’t get to fucking decide who lives and who dies. That’s not up to you.’_

With every sentence, Peter takes another step forward and another jab to the spot above Wade’s stomach. He doesn’t stop until the taller man is up against the brick wall of the staircase to the roof. He doesn’t stop until Wade’s chest is moving, up and down, up and down with every heavy breath he takes.

When Peter does stop, though, Wade shoves his gloved hand away.

 _‘Your life is more valuable than a murderer’s,’_ he disagrees. His tone is biting back heated animosity, because how can Peter think otherwise?

But the young hero is shaking his head at Wade, brown locks falling into his matching eyes. _‘No! A life is a life, Wade. I don’t know how to make that any clearer. For the last time: you don’t get to pull the trigger.’_

 _‘Then what the hell am I supposed to do? We’re not all shining superheroes, walking in the giant steps of the almighty Captain America. We’re not all so fucking good.’_ Now Wade’s getting in Peter’s face, but Peter doesn’t budge. He’s still angry and he stands firmly before Wade, despite the mercenary’s mask hovering too close for comfort. _‘Without the guns, I’m nothing. You’re telling me to change. Because you don’t want me as I am.’_

The last part is a whisper. Wade doesn’t know why it’s so hard to get out, but it struggles against his lungs and throat. When he finally lets it drop between them, Peter’s gaze changes from furious to a deep and startling surprise.

Suddenly, Wade understands why it was so difficult to say. It was a realization for them both. He has his mouth open to take it back, but Peter’s already nodding and slowly taking steps backwards.

 _‘If that’s what you think, then you’re right,’_ he says softly. _‘If you think the weaponry makes the man, then yes. You’re not the man I want.’_

He’s at the edge of the building, pulling his mask over his features – and Wade swears Peter’s cheeks are glistening, shining, damp – when Wade finally cries out, _‘Pete, that’s—'_

And then Wade is alone.

And in the dark room, Wade is alone.

It’s the push he needs. Fluttering fingers push his broad body off the couch and it takes all of ten seconds for Wade to cross the room and bring the cold metal into his hand.

In the mouth; it’s my favorite, the yellow box admits.

Too messy. In the chest; it’s slower but still effective, the white box instructs.

Wade looks at the weapon, the gun that makes the man. Then he points it to his leg – blows out his kneecap easily. When he seizes in a pain, it comes out as a strangled laugh.

Oh, God, the white box bemoans.

Fucking masochist, the yellow box scoffs.

Another shot aimed at his gut, but his hands are shaking with adrenaline, amusement and a pain that’s howling, so instead, the bullet ends up lodged in a lung. It shocks Wade; his body stumbles and he lands on his back against the coffee table that immediately breaks underneath his weight. His healing factor is already tending to the self-inflicted wounds, but he’s wheezing with laughter.

This is embarrassing, the white box says.

I can’t watch, the yellow box says.

He isn’t sure how many bullets he has left. So finally, he settles the barrel against his chest with weak sigh.

Good choice, the yellow box states excitedly.

Here we go, the white box echoes the enthusiasm.

Nothing is more painful than a bullet to the heart. Hot and sharp, it sits there as the surrounding organs turn off, and Wade, who can push through most pain, doesn’t slip into unconsciousness as most would. He lays there, dull eyes looking at the ceiling, feeling it all. The ache is red. The pain isn’t a howl anymore; it’s louder, something inhuman, something only canines and demons can hear.

Good God, make it stop! The yellow box shouts.

Please, please! The white box cries.

Wade lies there, feeling and waiting, shakily breathing, and wishing for darkness. It’s no longer funny; it’s just torture in its simplest, ugliest form. It takes every ounce left in him to lift the gun again – so much effort that Wade is unsure what actually kills him. Was it the movement of him bringing the barrel to the roof of his mouth, or the actual shot that causes him to black out?

He’s at her feet a moment later, heaving for air. It takes him a second to understand where he is and what has happened. Where are the voices and the pain? But when it hits him, a smirk stretches out his lips. He looks up at the figure before him.

“Hello, darling,” he says breathlessly.

Lady Death moves her head slowly and tilts it to the side in response.

“Been a while, hasn’t it? Did you miss me?”

Again, he’s greeted with silence. It’s always deafeningly quiet here in purgatory; so thick, instead of Wade’s nagging insanity, it’s the silence that rings in his ears. But it doesn’t bother him. He just gets up from his knees to stand before her. A hand reaches out to her robed essence. It’s only them, suspended in a vortex of Time, no colors or setting to get lost in. Just them, standing there, standing nowhere.

“C’mon, don’t be mad. Take us away, baby. Take us somewhere nice. We’ve only got so much time, you know,” he taunts. His finger grazes her jaw. Pockets of black where eyes should be stare into him and he feels at home. She says nothing, does nothing, and still, that’s fine by Wade. On and on he goes, sharing everything he kept stored up for her from the other side. “I haven’t told you lately, but you’re the love of my life. The paradox I touch myself to each night. Tell me, do you think of me, too?”

Her voice is like a hundred bells. It’s like thunder and rain and heavy winds. It reminds Wade of gunshots and bombs. He hasn’t heard it many times before and it shakes something inside him.

“Stay away.”

“Why?” He’s staring at her, startled and amazed all at the same time. “I had to come see you. I had to try again.”

She’s gone quiet again and he knows he was unsuccessful. Somewhere, there’s a clock ticking and a body healing. So he hasn’t taken up residence here. But a visit is a visit all the same, and she’s never let one go sour before.

“I swear, I won’t stay away so long again,” he tries, pulling her in by the waist, suspecting anger as the cause of her cold demeanor. Yet his fingers slip right through her, like she’s not even there, like he’s come all this way for nothing. Has he come all this way for nothing?

“I am not your promise,” she says.

“I am working hard to change that,” Wade tries again.

But then she’s out of reach.

Here, Wade has never felt much. He’s always been blinded by love. It transcends every other concept he’s escaped from the other side and keeps him coming back. But when the love hitches and falters, it’s like the reality of purgatory comes crashing around him.

This hasn’t happened before. He’s flying, then he’s staggering on his feet and when he looks around, he realizes Death has taken him somewhere, like he’s asked. But it’s not on a picnic or to a ballroom to dance. And she is nowhere to be seen or felt. And it’s dark and cold. Wade wonders if this is where he’s been all along. Every visit, has he really just been standing right here in blackness?

Her distinct voice comes through.

“I must be your only.”

“And you are,” Wade sputters to the void. He wants to be back in her arms, suspended away from this pit she’s locked him in. He’ll say just about anything for that safety. But in the moment, he thinks he means it.

“I am not.”

His mind is reeling. What is she talking about? Their love, it’s the only thing he’s sure of. It’s chaos, but it’s real. Every time Wade dies, it’s like coming home.

“Sweetheart—“

The bells and thunder and bombs cut him off.

“You have fallen in love with another. He has given you Hope. But Hope has no place here. So you must stay away, until he’s come to me and you have left Hope far behind.”

Wade never knew a pronoun could be so loaded, but when Death says ‘he,’ Wade feels a jolt in the pit of his stomach. It continues to sting when Peter’s face appears in Wade’s mind. This is a new sensation; this is a pain not even Wade Wilson can ignore.

He’s cringing as he lies to Death. “Him? He was nothing. Just a stupid fling. I don’t love him like I love you.”

It’s so dark. It’s so quiet. It’s so absent here. When Death pauses, gone from sight and without her voice to bring any sort of comfort, Wade realizes purgatory isn’t what he thought it was. He wants to get away.

“Stay away,” she says, like she’s read his mind.

And then Wade is gasping for air.

Every time, it comes as a shock. When Wade can feel himself trapped in his body again, it’s like it’s for the first time. The pain hits him like he’s caught in an avalanche. The voices are too loud. How does he stay alive for so long? In these moments after death, he doesn’t know.

And so we’re back, the white box sighs, disappointed.

Maybe next time, the yellow box says.

Wade is still lying in a puddle of his own blood. It’s doused the room, leaving behind the harsh scent of destruction. When it doesn’t hurt too much to move, he’ll have to clean his old head and brain off the wall. He’ll have to scrub the floors clean of the maroon liquid. He’ll have to paint over anything that lingers.

But right now, it hurts. It hurts more than it’s ever hurt before. When it hurts this bad, Wade turns to Death again. But she doesn’t want him anymore, does she? And no one here wants him, either.

The sun is setting outside his window, but Wade doesn’t move until dawn. He doesn’t shift into a more comfortable position. He doesn’t sleep. He doesn’t talk. He just lays atop the broken coffee table and thinks – about Hope, about Death, about Peter Parker.

**Author's Note:**

> this is what happens when you're writing a really fluffy fic, but you love angst.
> 
> thx 4 reading, hope you enjoyed!


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